


Say my name

by etherealbucky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Established Relationship, M/M, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, bucky barnes fighst the winter soldier, bucky who the hell is bucky but he remembers something, but not that sad, idk how to tag, it's sad, okay that shit hurted, the highway scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealbucky/pseuds/etherealbucky
Summary: “Bucky”. A whisper, broken, like the face in front of him, like him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Say my name

_“Bucky”. A whisper, broken, like the face in front of him, like him._  
He remembers. Broken whispers in a tent at night, the fear of being caught, a fire like an abyss. A bright star on a chest, blond hair, blue eyes. Laughs sounding like liberty, the smell of an apple pie on a skin heated by the sun in summer.  
He remembers.

He remembers his mother’s sweet songs, his father’s voice when he talked about the war, back there, on the old continent. He remembers his grandma cooking, talking in hebrew, calling him sweet names from before. He remembers her in front of the oven, frowning because he stole something but her eyes are bright. He remembers his sisters chatting in the kitchen, asking him questions he couldn’t answer. He remembers looking for the answer, at night, when his father was talking to his mother, when he knew he wouldn’t be caught.

He remembers. He remembers a shape, a silhouette, always drawing, always fighting. He remembers his always broken skin over his knuckles, his hands, long and pale, so pale he could see the frail bones under it. He remembers fingers darkened by the charcoal, the endless drawings all over the walls. He remembers seeing him sprayed on the floor, painting him, or the sky, looking at the clouds for hours.  
He remembers those same hands, the hands of an angel, touching him. He remembers feeling guilty, after that, how can an angel touch a sinner like me and he remembers. He remembers loving, touching, touching with those hands that brought pain and death for so many years.  
He remembers touching those so thin and perfect hands, he remembers sitting on a fire escape, he remembers those hands and his, holding close, tight, as if they were going to disappear if they let go too soon.

He remembers blue eyes, full of pride, full of fire, but always, always full of love. He remembers the sins, the whispers behind a closed door, the too fast breaths drawn off of each other’s mouths, he remembers longing touches.  
He remembers an angel’s voice, whispers of love, whispers of promesses. Always so caring but careless all the same. He remember the fear, the tears and the yelling voices, the slamming doors, he remembers the smell of alcohol after, the bodies pressing into each other, as if they wanted to be one, as if they were afraid the other would leave again, for real this time. He remembers watching the sun rising, the bodies untangling and the smell, his smell, on the pillows.

He remembers the sun setting, the laughs flying along with seagulls.  
He remembers stolen kisses in a street, late in the night, their voices singing together, happy, careless.  
He remembers the smell of a blond woman, her voice, always gentle, her smile, always caring. He remembers her talking in another language, one she taught to her son. He remembers calling him her son too, he remembers her saying he doesn’t have to be afraid. He remembers her, and he remembers his mother.

He remembers he wasn’t a weapon, before. He remembers he was a son, a brother, a lover and a half of a soul. He remembers he was loved, you are loved, don’t you forget this, I love you, even in the darkest of time, even if you’re not who you should have been, by his mother, his father, his sisters. He remembers that skinny boy and his too fierce love, all fire and fight, restless but oh so soft when whispering.  
He remembers those whispers, meant to be sins but that could only be seen as prayers in his mouth.  
He remembers his own name, said like he was salvation. He remembers a time when his name meant love instead of fear and desolation.  
And he remembers, oh how he remembers.  
He remembers, finally. He remembers all of this, years of a past long forgotten, glimpse of a life lived by someone else and him at the same time, he remembers all of this in a flash, flash of pain, of fear, of something else, of something exciting. He remembers and there is a name.  
He remembers he is.  
He is his mother’s and father’s son, his sister’s brother. He remembers he is Steve’s.  
He remembers his name.

_“The man on the bridge. I knew him.”_

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! so i wrote this a while ago but i forgot to post it haha  
> this is like the very first thing i post on ao3 so i hope y'all will like it!  
> you can find me on twitter as @dykestevie


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